


Stay With Me

by alivingfire



Series: Hiding Place [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Basically Just Smut, Explicit Language, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Spanking, Subspace, lots and lots of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: Louis doesn’t let go the way Harry lets go. Harry lets go in throat-ripping cries, in buzzing limbs taut with tension, tossing his head until Louis forces him still.


  Louis lets go softly. Louis lets go like an exhale, a breath of air and his muscles go loose, his body follows Harry’s lead. Louis lets go like a flower’s petals unfurling, opening himself up delicately, quietly. Louis lets go and the world spins slower, just for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt: **i was reading hiding place and after jay's wedding hl have many rounds of sex one of which involves spanking. i was wondering if you would ever write it cause i desperately want to see how it would play out in their hiding place dynamic. even tho it was a line it's been stuck in my head all day. but if it's not up your alley then that's fine too**

Their clothes have been flung to the far corners of the room, long since trampled underfoot in the stumbling, kiss-laden passes between the shower and the bed and the window and the desk. Harry’s knees ache, his jaw sore and his fingers cramping from holding Louis open, but it’s worth it for the way he fell apart on Harry’s tongue, the noises he sobbed into the room still echoing off the walls.

He’s almost finished for the night, Harry can tell. Hard enough to wring three orgasms out of him on a normal day, when they’ve had enough sleep and they don’t feel like they’re on a tightrope for the whole day, paps watching their every move waiting for them to screw up. Three on a day like today, when they’ve been rushing all over the grounds securing bouquets and directing lost family members and stopping imminent breakdowns of bridesmaids, flowergirls, ring bearers, and brides, it’s a miracle Louis can still stand. His thighs quake against Harry’s palms, and they both won’t make it through another round standing.

Harry turns, spots the armchair. Pulls Louis along with him.

Before he sits, he stops to check in. “Babe,” he says, and Louis squeezes his fingers. “Lou, do you wanna?”

“Wanna what?” Louis murmurs. There’s the tiniest glint of mischievousness in his eyes, buried under the exhaustion and the haziness from coming three times in quick succession.

Harry just quirks an eyebrow, smirks a little, because Louis knows. Three orgasms in, there’s only one thing left for them to do to knock Louis over the edge of _more_.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers after a moment. “I wanna.”

Harry falls backward into the armchair, gets comfortable. When he nods, Louis splays himself across his lap.

They can’t do this often. It takes Louis too long to recover, to stop taking a full minute to answer a question, to stop clinging to Harry and whimpering when he’s more than a few steps away. Harry can go under and come back out of it within an hour; Louis has to sleep it off, spend a night as the little spoon with Harry’s warmth wrapped around him. When he doesn’t get to sleep, he stays hazy and lost, willing and pliant, and in a job like theirs, the can’t risk him being like that in public.

They also can’t do it a majority of the time because their lives allow them only the tiniest bit of privacy, and their poor road crew and bandmates have seen and heard far too much already. Niall still swears he’s scarred from walking in on them in that Germany hotel room, with the ropes and the panties and the ball gag in Harry’s mouth. Liam swears the noises Louis makes when Harry has him on his back (because, unfortunately, they _can_ tell the difference between that and on his stomach and when they’re on their sides, all thanks to ill-advised tour bus sex and lots of thin hotel walls) haunt his nightmares. Zayn refuses to speak about the no less than eight times he’s walked in on Louis balls deep in Harry (and that’s _just_ the times Louis was fucking Harry. That’s not counting the multitudes of other compromising positions Zayn’s been a witness to). A bit of spanking probably wouldn’t even top the list of kinky things the boys have seen or heard, but Harry still wants to protect them and the last vestiges of their innocence. 

So, no, there’s not much of this on the road, which covers a good two-thirds of their lives now, and when they do have a break long enough to do it at home, they have to make sure there’s nothing going on the next day so Louis won’t still be out of it, wobbly and giggly and dazed.

Harry rubs his hands over Louis’ bum, his hips, his back. He’s got scratch marks from earlier around the dimples near his spine, faint new bruises on his hips. Louis groans when Harry pushes his cheeks apart, burying his face in the arm of the chair as Harry runs a gentle finger around his hole, still wet from Harry’s mouth. Harry could do this for hours, touch and caress Louis til he begs, but that’s not why they’re here.

He surprises even himself with the first smack to Louis’ skin, his hand tingling when he brings it down against Louis’ bum. Louis jumps and curses, but curves his hips and arches his back as if on instinct the moment the pain fades away. Harry lines up another on the same spot, the skin under his hand already pink and warm.

Louis doesn’t let go the way Harry lets go. Harry lets go in throat-ripping cries, in buzzing limbs taut with tension, tossing his head until Louis forces him still.

Louis lets go softly. Louis lets go like an exhale, a breath of air and his muscles go loose, his body follows Harry’s lead. Louis lets go like a flower’s petals unfurling, opening himself up delicately, quietly. Louis lets go and the world spins slower, just for him.

Harry loves bringing that out. He absolutely adores loud Louis, when he cries and begs and moans, when he marks up Harry’s back and shoulders with fierce fingers and sharp teeth. He loves fucking Louis until he’s hoarse, until he’s shaky and walking with hitched steps, loves Louis growling low into his ear as he tears Harry apart. But this, this Louis, Louis falling apart from the inside out and trusting Harry to hold his pieces, Harry loves this so much it makes his heart pound.

Louis’ skin goes red under Harry’s palm, hot to the touch, and he’s already hard again against Harry’s thigh. Each smack of palm to arse is like a blast of lightning, sharp, quick, loud. He’s falling, though, Harry can feel it; the way his spine loosens, the way his hips start to undulate. He lifts into each hit against his bum, pushing back into Harry’s palm when he squeezes over the stinging skin.

“Good, baby?” Harry murmurs, and Louis hums, shifting his hips. Harry smacks him again, and Louis’ breath stutters. “Words, love. Use words.”

“Good,” Louis moans softly. “Good, Harry. Love you.”

Won’t be long, now. Louis’ pupils have overtaken the blue of his eyes, his rosebud lips parted. He moves with Harry, reacting to every shift, every press of fingers.

Just a little more. Harry delivers two quick hits, one on each cheek, reddening the skin a little further. Louis draws a deep breath, and that’s when Harry does it: he swings his arms back, gives Louis his hardest hit, spanks right over Louis’ hole. Louis arches, gasps, and falls back onto Harry’s lap in a slump, pliant and perfect. Eyes glazed, breath steady little hitches. His small, warm hand wrapped around Harry’s leg, squeezing in time with his heartbeats like an outside pulse.

“Hazza,” is all he says, “Haz,” and his voice is velvety soft, light like summer rain. Dazed and slow, delicate and sweet.

He’s under. 

Harry stands, somehow, rolling Louis onto his back and hooking his arms under his knees and back, walking him the few careful steps to the bed. He lays Louis out and Louis lets him, watches him, waits for him, his darkened eyes wide. His knees are pulled up and his thighs are shaking and his hands rest daintily on his slow-heaving chest and he’s the most beautiful contradiction in the world, needy and needless, soft and sharp.

Harry craves him like air, like water. It doesn’t matter that they’ve spent the evening tearing into each other; Louis is deep, deep under, every breath like a conscious choice, and Harry feels so connected to him it’s almost scary. Louis orients himself around Harry, and Harry revolves around Louis right back. The sun chasing the moon, the moon chasing the sun.

Harry lays himself over Louis and they merge, they align and it’s more than ever before, connected heart and fingers and hips and knees. Harry fumbles with the lube and then the last piece slides into place, their lips connect and they’re a constellation in perfect position. Harry pushes in and Louis breathes out. Harry presses kisses and tender words to Louis’ collarbones, chest, throat, lips.

“I love you,” he says, and he means it, and Louis breathes it in.

Louis probably can’t feel his arousal, probably too floaty and disconnected to know how close he is to tiptoeing over the edge. His cock is full, though, a hard, hot line against Harry’s stomach, pulsing with each thrust. Harry works a hand between them, doesn’t have to do anything but put a little pressure around the head and Louis comes, his head tipping back, his mouth falling open, his little intake of breath the only sound in the room.

Harry finishes quickly after that, his orgasm secondary to the way Louis looks right now. He’s sprawled out underneath Harry, his hands gently twined in his curls, tracing the bumps of his spine. His heartbeat drums against Harry’s steadily, rhythmically. The dagger on his arms thrums with heat where it’s pressed against Harry’s skin, like a beacon, smoldering. Harry thumbs it just before he pulls out, his own rose Marker glowing in concerto, and Louis’ arm spasms unconsciously at the tingle.

Louis makes a tiny sound when Harry hurries to the bathroom, his tired legs protesting as he jogs around the room, disposing of the condom and wetting a cloth to clean them off, not wanting to be too far from Louis for too long. He hums happily when Harry settles back next to him on the bed, the sheets disgusting beneath them but not Harry’s problem at the moment. Harry coaxes a granola bar and half a bottle of water into Louis as he cleans him up, rewarding him with kisses and praises that make him smile sleepily and shift closer to Harry, each blink longer than the last. He’s sweet and soft, sexy and shivery, a satisfied grin on his face as he burrows into the circle of Harry’s arms. In the morning he’ll be quicker, sharper, a dagger unsheathed, but for now he’s placed his whole self in Harry’s hands and trusted him not to let him break.

“Love you,” he says slowly before he drifts off, and Harry wonders, not for the first time and certainly not the last, how he ever got so lucky to have Louis Tomlinson as his soulmate.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/post/140132008896).


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